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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097120">and then there were none</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse'>oforamuse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>But not too sad, M/M, happy birthday ian, mickey is in mexico and is sad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 23:21:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,227</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097120</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>it takes until 12:34pm for mickey to realise what day it is. </p><p>may 9th. </p><p>or, the one where it's ian's birthday and mickey is in mexico. alone.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and then there were none</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hey, i'm not sure what this is. it's been a month or so since i last wrote a one shot, my wip has consumed me (in the best way) so this was a nice break. </p><p>shout out to my girl <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts">michelle</a> for reading it over and being a constant beacon of support. </p><p>title taken from 'then there were none' from spring awakening. </p><p>happy birthday ian, i love you lots.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes until 12:34pm for Mickey to realise what day it is. </p><p><em> May 9th</em>. </p><p>It hits him like a pile of bricks and he throws his phone across the room. </p><p>He presses his palms into his eyes because <em>of </em> <em> course </em> it falls on his day off. Of course, today of all days, he has absolutely fuck <em> all </em> to do so he doesn’t even get the opportunity to be distracted by the ins and outs of the Mexican drug business.</p><p>His eyes sting. </p><p>It’s not even 1pm and Mickey wants to get fucking <em> drunk</em>. </p><p>Before he knows it, he’s on his way to his favourite bar with his heart halfway up his throat. The midday sun is high and hot and he can feel it burning into the back of his neck as he walks. He doesn’t care. </p><p>May <em> fucking </em> 9th. </p><p>It’s a small place, conveniently tucked away between a row of apartments - it’s the kind of place you can only access through a back alley, if you know then you <em> know </em> and if you don’t… well, then you can easily walk past it without even remotely catching on. </p><p>It’s the kind of place you go if you don’t want to be disturbed (though also in Mickey’s case, avoid being noticed by the wrong person or organisation.). </p><p>He shoves open the door with a bent elbow and he’s flooded with the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and last night’s booze. It’s as comforting as those smells can be. The bell above the door alerts his presence - everyone who patrons here all tend to be on the same side of <em> cautious</em>, you can never be too careful - so you need to make yourself known. </p><p>It reluctantly reminds him a bit of The Alibi, as much as he tries to avoid making the connection. There always seems to be someone around no matter the time of day, the same faces, same voices, same drink orders. The community sense of it all. The sticky floors. </p><p>Same bar, different lifetime. </p><p>Thousands of miles and one broken heart between the two. </p><p><em> ‘Hey</em>, Mickey- fuck’s up with you?’ The guy behind the bar asks with a frown, his tone changing at the twisted expression on Mickey’s face. </p><p>His muscles ache with it. His whole body aches. </p><p>The bartender, Jason, looks at him suspiciously. Jason’s a relatively plain looking white guy from Australia, though a few weeks prior he drunkenly told Mickey that he hasn’t been back in years. Mexico was his home now. Something about needing to disappear, needing to run and get as far away from <em> home </em> as possible. </p><p>Mickey didn’t question it. He knows that feeling well. </p><p>There’s a slight camaraderie between the two of them, two foreigners in an unfamiliar village both saddled with years worth of baggage to unpack, history left on the road behind them. There's mutual trust. A tip of a head across the bar in solidarity. </p><p>Jason speaks a lot better Spanish than he does though, Mickey doesn’t bother to fight him on that one. </p><p>‘Don’t fuckin’ matter.’ He grunts, sliding onto a stool at the bar. ‘S’all good.’ </p><p>Jason laughs cautiously and Mickey can tell he’s unconvinced. He looks up from where he’s halfway bent down towards the fridge under the bar where Mickey knows where they keep the imported beer, ‘You want some of your American shit?’ </p><p>‘No.’ Mickey runs a hand down his face, then flips off Jason deftly, ‘And fuck you, your Aussie shit isn’t any better. Tastes like fuckin’ piss.’ </p><p>He makes a sound at the back of his throat in disagreement, and the bell rings behind him signalling someone else’s entry. Jason sighs, ‘Whatever, man- just let me know when you’re ready.’ </p><p>He turns away. </p><p>Mickey rolls his eyes and lets his forehead fall down onto the sticky bar top. It stinks of spilt tequila and stubbed out ash, but all he can think about is today’s date and it makes him want to scream. </p><p>He breathes, alone for a moment, and counts to ten in an ill attempt to find peace. It’s all in vain though because <em>everything </em> is screaming at him and it gnaws down to his bones. </p><p>May <em> fucking </em> 9th. </p><p>A firm hand claps down on his shoulder. </p><p>‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’ A familiar voice says.</p><p><em> ‘Fuck </em> off.’ He snaps, shooting upwards and shaking his shoulders out. He turns and glares at the culprit - it’s just who he suspects. He looks at him expectantly. </p><p>‘How you doin’, man?’ Emiliano says, cracking a wide grin. He's a local boy, born and raised in the suburbs outside of town but went to college in Boston so there’s an amusing twang to his English as he speaks. Emiliano loves to mention how much he likes to have an American around - Mickey reminds him of the <em> good days</em>, he says. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t tend to hang around in the same place too long - his area of business requires constant moving to save face and keep cover. He can’t make friends, he can’t build <em> relationships</em>. This bar is the closest he’s come, really, and even then he tries to keep it all at arm's length. It’s safer that way, easier…</p><p>Things get dangerous when they’re made personal. When he cares. He learnt that the hard way. </p><p>Everything Mickey has ever cared about has ruined him, everything he’s ever held close and dear, has shelled him out and left him hollow. </p><p>His mother. His father. Chicago. Ian… </p><p>So when he crossed that border? </p><p>He decided that he was done. </p><p>Done with caring, done with friends, done with vulnerability that comes with opening yourself up and letting someone <em> in </em>. </p><p>But...if he could make friends? If he let himself cross that line? </p><p>Emiliano and Jason would probably be the closest he’s come. </p><p>‘What’s up with you?’ Emiliano prods, nudging an elbow into his ribs, ‘Someone shit in your coffee?’</p><p>‘Nothin- don’t give me <em> that </em> look, it's nothing.’ Mickey says, waving his hand dismissively. He forces himself to keep his face neutral, ‘You keep lookin’ at me with those raised eyebrows I’m gonna knock your teeth out.’ </p><p>Emiliano whistles, sliding in next to him. ‘Fuck man, someone <em> did </em>shit in your coffee.’ </p><p>He leans over the bar and fires off something in quickly spoken Spanish to Jason.  </p><p>‘You gotta chill, dude.’ He says, and Jason places three shots of what Mickey assumes is tequila - it’s <em> always </em> tequila here - in front of him. </p><p>Emiliano shoves his shoulder, ‘Come on, man.’ </p><p>Mickey sighs deeply, but feels himself give in. ‘Fuckin’ assholes.’ He says with an irritated grumble, there’s no bite behind it. He knows they mean well, even if he feels like he’s going to throw up.</p><p>They raise their glasses in unison and clink them together. He knocks it back. </p><p>The liquor stings as it goes down, burning all the way into his stomach. It’s a relief, at least for now, from the painful ache in his chest but it doesn’t stop the one thought that’s been playing on his mind since he discovered the date from flooding through him. The feeling of a lost limb. </p><p>Ian should be here. Ian should be here. Ian should be here. </p><p>Ian should be here, next to him and raising a <em> glass- </em></p><p>No. </p><p>‘Another.’ Mickey mumbles, slamming the empty glass down. Jason raises his eyebrows but obliges, pouring him out another. Mickey shoots it down immediately. </p>
<hr/><p>The beach spins, nothing in his head is slotting in place properly and he tries to piece things together but he feels like a puzzle made up of only corner pieces. He breathes deeply. </p><p>The warm air from the sea washes over him, his bare feet warm in the sand. </p><p>It’s the first time he’s felt balance in hours. </p><p><em> This </em> is it. The beach, the sun. The thrum of tequila running through his blood stream, the fiery burn in his throat. </p><p>This is what he wanted. </p><p>It was the only thing that kept him waking up each morning and going to bed every night in the joint. The last thing he thought of before he closed his eyes and the first thing he thought of before he opened them. It filled him with hope, so much fucking <em> foolish </em> hope. </p><p>Except he’s empty. It’s empty. </p><p>It’s empty because the <em> key </em> component of his carefully crafted and agonised over Mexico fantasy is missing and for the first time today, Mickey let’s himself think of him, properly <em> visualise </em> and <em> think </em> of him. </p><p>Mickey kneels down onto the sand and the barrier breaks. </p><p>He thinks about his smile and the way the corners of his mouth curl up fondly when he pretends Mickey exasperates him. His arms, the muscles he built over years worth of ROTC training and the physical need to be <em> better</em>, to fight harder<em>. </em>His red hair and the many ways he’s worn it in the past, long and hanging in his eyes, short back and sides, closely buzzed to the scalp - his scramble to identify and present himself in a community that came with so many labels you’re saddled with from birth. Southsider, Gallagher, Milkovich. The feeling of his calloused and begging hands on his, the sweaty skin on skin, low, guttural breaths. The pressure on his hips, ass, back. </p><p>That hot summer, passing cigarettes at the dugouts, the chill against naked skin in the Kash N Grab cooler. </p><p>The minutes, the hours, the days spent together. </p><p>The minutes, the hours, the days Mickey wasted being scared. A pussy. A coward.</p><p>His voice. </p><p>
  <em> I love you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This isn’t me anymore.  </em>
</p><p>The look in his eyes when they last kissed, faces cradled by gently cupped hands, eyes wet. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t think about that day often. He <em> can’t </em> think about it. </p><p>If he thinks about it too much, it’ll fill his lungs and he’ll drown.</p><p>Mickey knows if he wanted to, if he really, <em> really </em>wanted to, he could walk down to the payphone just off the boardwalk and call him up - the temptation to hear his voice itches. He thinks about it late at night sometimes, the possibility of making that connection beckoning him in the moonlight. </p><p>It’s there. It’s in his reach. </p><p>But he can’t. Any connection between the two of them could implicate Ian in so many ways and Mickey <em> can’t </em> risk that. He can’t risk cops turning up at Ian’s door in the middle of the night, public call records flattened out a table, tossed accusations of aiding and abetting a fugitive. </p><p>No matter how much he wants to. </p><p>He can’t. </p><p>He knows that their goodbye at the border has to be <em>The Goodbye</em>. </p><p>He looks over at the wide ocean, it shimmers as the sun begins to set. </p><p>He thinks about the sun and how it’s a consistent factor no matter his place in the world. Unlike many things in life, the sun remains the same. </p><p>His love for Ian, like the sun, will always remain the same. </p><p>It’s a comfort to know, that thousands of miles away, Ian’s celebrating a new year of life under the same sun. </p><p>365 days without him. </p><p>In another universe, Ian would be standing next to him looking out onto the same ocean. Maybe they would’ve fucked on the sand, drunk off their asses in celebration. Sand between their toes, the smell of sunscreen sweating off them, sun in their eyes. Perhaps they wouldn’t have even left their apartment, the day spent in a warm bedroom with hot skin and a cold Mexican beer for afters. </p><p>In another universe, Ian would’ve taken his hand at the border and said, <em> let’s ride</em>.  </p><p>But this isn’t that universe. </p><p>He swallows harshly, the remnants of alcohol lingering on his tongue. </p><p>He lets himself have one more minute of wallowing, one more minute of <em> missing </em> him, missing them. </p><p>One more minute of what ifs and could’ve beens. </p><p>He sighs, and looks back out towards the ocean. The waves pull in and out, periodically returning home to the shore. He can’t return back to his home. </p><p>He falls back, the sand softening his fall. </p><p>He’s not thinking about Ian, he’s not thinking about Chicago, or <em> i love yous </em> at border crossings, or anything else. He’s not thinking about the drug deals he has lined up, or his boss, or those who’ve somehow come to work underneath him. He’s floating, he’s floating away and he really could just disappear. </p><p>He wishes he could. </p><p>Would anyone even notice if he did?</p><p>Mickey lies on the hot sand, closes his eyes, and breathes. </p>
<hr/><p>2 years or so later, Mickey wakes.</p><p>He doesn't need to check the date. He knows.</p><p>He thinks back on his time in Mexico and that drunken evening on the beach. He can’t really remember the exact passage of time, being out of prison means he doesn’t feel the need to tirelessly keep track of the days that go by. He simply gets to exist now. There’s no clock hanging above his head. </p><p>There is however, a wedding band on his finger and love in his heart. </p><p>Mexico and it’s encapsulating loneliness is a memory. </p><p>It’s May 9th. </p><p>Ian wakes up next to him, tiredly blinking as his eyes adjust to the morning light. Their bed is warm and comforting. Familiar. Ian looks over to him and smiles, a year older. </p><p>Mickey smiles back. </p><p>He’s not alone anymore. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading! i got yelled at on twitter for being too sad so hopefully this isn't too bad. </p><p>big love to everyone keeping up with my wip <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868188/chapters/54657151">i had a dream (i got everything i wanted)</a> - all of your comments and support for the last few chapters has been wonderful. the next chapter should be up soon, it's a big one. if you're not reading it, check it out! </p><p>follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/buzzcutian">twitter</a></p><p>comments &amp; kudos are very, very much appreciated. </p><p>see you soon xo</p></blockquote></div></div>
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